Warden: A Novel (29 page)

“You and I both know it’s never the same after,” she said. “And if I can’t be what I was, Sergeant, I’d rather be dead. Besides, I can’t go to a hospital or the Collective will find me, and then I’d never live long enough to even
have
the surgery. Now, prop my ass up, Sergeant, and give me some of those magnetic charges we took. Then take the rest of the Wardens and get the hell out of here.”

Dura looked in the direction of the Collective troops and saw two pairs of headlights coming up the street behind them. Reinforcements. Even if they left now, the Collective would still be able to catch up to them in the much faster APCs. Dura understood what he needed to do. And despite how quickly he’d come to the decision, it was the hardest one he’d ever made.

He ignored the gunfire and carried Kina back over to the armory, propping her back up against the perimeter fence. Then he ran to the nearest hauler and grabbed two explosive charges. Dura was forced to duck behind the vehicle for a few moments as the enemy fire intensified, but then he darted back over to Kina.

One look at her face told him she’d already come to terms with dying. And Kina was right…about everything. Even if they did escape, no amount of field medicine would save her life. She needed a hospital, but the Collective would surely find Kina there and she’d die anyway. And even if by some miracle she made it, Kina might walk again, but she could never be a Warden, and certainly never dance. Those were the two things that defined her—that gave Kina’s life purpose. And now they were both gone.

Sergeant Dura understood her decision completely.

He handed Kina the charges and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Hurt em’, Kina. Don’t let them follow us.”

“They won’t get past me, Sergeant,” she replied. Then Kina smiled. “And Dura…”

“Yeah, Kina?”

“Tell the Great Betrayer I said ‘hi’.”

“I will. I promise.”

Kina gave Dura a firm nod—one final gesture to let him know that it was all okay; that this was really what she wanted. Then Dura ran over and leapt up into one of the haulers.

“Go!” he yelled.

As they pulled away, the remaining Collective vehicle began to inch forward, preparing to pursue them. But the Wardens maintained enough pressure on the soldiers trying to get back inside it to keep them all pinned down. It was only a temporary victory, though, because the two APCs Dura had observed in the distance finally arrived, swerving around the stuck vehicle to drop in behind the fleeing cargo-haulers. The APCs increased speed, and began rapidly gaining on the Wardens.

Dura saw Kina twist the magnetic actuators on both charges and throw them in quick succession. She missed the second vehicle completely, but managed to stick one of the explosives on the APC out front. The detonation upended the personnel carrier and sent it crashing down on the APC behind it, successfully destroying both armored transports and blocking the street.

Nice one, Kina.

But Dura wasn’t the only one watching her actions. The soldiers still crouched behind the APC at the armory witnessed what she’d done as well. And as the Wardens rounded a corner that would send them all to safety, Sergeant Dura saw Kina take a bullet in her neck. Her head was thrown violently off to the side, and then Kina toppled over motionless on the ground. Dura lost sight of her as they completed the turn.

The Collective will pay for her death,
he promised himself.
And for the deaths of every other person those bastards have killed.

Sergeant Dura continued staring out the back of the hauler, watching as the tall buildings of the Middle District fell behind them. When they crashed through the border gates and crossed into the Common Ring the view changed completely, and Dura knew that they were well on their way back to the breakdown yards.

Back into hiding.

A recent memory swept into his mind as they made their way through the night, and Dura once again recalled the evening he’d snuck in to watch Kina dance—remembering her shy smile to the crowd when the performance ended. Kina was elated that night, happy…and vulnerable. She wasn’t Kina the Warden—a proficient and deadly soldier. She was just a dancer, sharing her gift with the audience.

The memory made Dura feel better somehow, like a tiny sliver of joy in the middle of all the hell he’d been through. But that feeling only lasted for a moment, savagely pushed aside by Kina’s final smile…the one she’d made while leaning up against the fence at the armory, paralyzed and covered in blood.

The one she’d given Dura right before she was killed.

She’d meant for it to be brave—an expression of determination. But Dura had seen Kina’s fear. She was afraid of dying at the end, and Dura had been afraid for her. He wouldn’t rest until he saw that same fear on the faces of General Malves and Minister Golen, and any other member of the Collective that wound up in front of his gun.

Because Kina’s death meant another Warden was gone.

Most of the others had been killed in their sleep, or cut down in front of their families—their bodies taken, and no testaments left for the Vade. At least Kina had gotten the chance to die in battle.

But Sergeant Dura found little solace in that.

His anger exploded, and Dura slapped the wall of the cargo-hauler in frustration, leaving a handprint in Kina’s blood. A few of his fellow Wardens glanced over at the outburst but they understood Dura’s rage; they felt it as well.

They had the weapons from the armory now. And the downtrodden were gathering whatever else they could cobble together to fight. Soon…it would be time to strike back. All they lacked now was Sergeant Barent to unite the people against the Collective.

Where is he?
Dura thought to himself.

He squeezed his eyes closed tightly, struggling to rein in the intense emotions triggered by Kina’s death.
Where the hell is the Great Betrayer?

Sergeant Dura was ready for revenge.

Barent watched as the last of his forces cleared the mouth of the canyon and rode out onto the crater floor.

Their horses began to pick up speed as they gained distance from the imposing wall behind them, desperate to escape the howling winds that had tortured both man and beast for hours. The group rode straight toward the waiting mass of Olin and Exile warriors that had preceded them on the perilous journey down the slope, and Barent gave the new arrivals a few moments to merge in with the main assembly before putting the snowcraft into motion—gliding forward at a leisurely pace. He considered the current situation as they began their trek across the stark landscape.

In all, it had been a remarkably successful passage; the trail they’d prepared for the journey served its purpose well. A few horses had been lost on the trip to the crater floor—they were quickly quartered, and then packed away with the other supplies—but all of the people had made it.

“I can not
imagine
coming down that slope on a horse,” Tana said.

“Neither can I,” Barent replied. “They are damn good riders, all of them. Between the steep angle and the winds, it’s an absolute miracle that everyone survived.”

“But how will they ever get back
up
it again?” Tana asked.

“That,” Barent said, “is a problem for another time. And compared to everything else we’re facing right now, it’s barely even on the radar.”

“I see your point.”

Tana looked back through the canopy at the army of soldiers following behind them, watching as the thousands of horses that bore them slogged their way through the snow. She observed dozens of smaller groupings within the jumbled mass of people, each of them distinctly comprised of either Olin or Exile warriors—but never both.

“At this pace,” Tana said, “it’s going to take us a long time to get to Le’sant.”

“Another day, for certain,” Barent agreed, the disappointment obvious in his voice. “And that’s really pushing the horses, especially after what they’ve already been through.”

“Well, at least the weather isn’t as bad as the last time we crossed the wasteland.”

“No, it isn’t. And I’ll take every bit of good news I can ge—”

Barent abruptly stopped speaking when he noticed an annoying trace of static coming from somewhere inside the cabin. It was a consistent, yet indistinct buzzing sound—one that seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at the same time. He checked the snowcraft’s instruments first—even toggling a few he suspected might be the culprits on and off again, trying to clear it. But the noise continued unabated. As it grew louder, Tana noticed it as well.

“What is that?” she asked.

“I’m trying to find out now.”

Barent listened intently for a few moments, and then realized the reason he couldn’t pinpoint the source of the sound was because it was coming from his own body. He reached into his pocket and withdrew his identification card, and then Barent held it up close to his ear to confirm his suspicions.

“It’s coming from my ID card,” he said, amused. “The battery is motion-charged, so there are a few tiny moving parts inside. After half a millennium, I’m not surprised it’s acting up. Let me clear it.”

Barent swiped his finger across the corner to trigger the voiceprint cycle. But instead of a reset tone, he heard something completely unexpected…in his own voice.

“Sergeant Barent. My name is Sergeant Dura, of the Wardens. We’ve modified a Collective communications platform to repeat this message, and programmed it to circle Le’sant in an ever-expanding loop, hoping the signal will eventually travel far enough out to reach you.”

“What the…” Tana said.

“The Collective tried their best to eliminate the Wardens, but some of us still survive. We’re currently marshaling what forces we can as we await your arrival, and have managed to procure some weapons as well. We know you’re coming, Sergeant Barent. As soon as we learned you were still alive, we knew that you wouldn’t let this situation stand.”

“Then you had more faith in me than I did,” Barent said under his breath.

“If you receive this transmission, you can contact us on the same frequency. The Collective platform will serve as a relay. The Wardens guarded your legacy for years, Sergeant Barent, so we know the frequency of your ID card. But you needn’t worry, the Collective surely won’t. I doubt they even have the imagination necessary to consider this form of communication. The Wardens stand ready and willing to help you defeat the Collective, Sergeant Barent. Just tell us how to proceed. Dura, out.”

“I knew it,” Tana said excitedly. “I told you the people would rally behind you.”

“It seems like the Wardens certainly have.”

But try as he might, Barent still couldn’t understand it. His mind raced back to the past, to the time of the Pardon War. Those troops had trusted him because they
saw
Barent in action. He’d provided them with weapons and guidance, and put his own life on the line to protect them. He’d fought side-by-side with the prisoners, helping free them from the oppression of the guards and colonists. To that generation, Barent was a living being, whose actions were on display for all to judge.

But these people…

He was nothing more than a history lesson to them. They didn’t know Barent at all except through books and Collective propaganda—information largely curated and disseminated by his mortal enemies for their own gain. How could the people of modern Le’sant have so much faith in him, a simple prison guard, five hundred years after his reported death?

The voice that came out of the ID badge had been his own, but Barent still heard the conviction behind Sergeant Dura’s words. He was a believer. And he
believed
that Barent would bring fairness to Le’sant. That he would somehow right all of the wrongs allowed to fester and grow over the last five centuries.

And I will,
Barent thought to himself.

Or die trying.

When he first woke up in the tomb, Barent had doubts about his place in this new world—a time so far removed from everything and everyone that he’d ever known. But no longer. Barent knew exactly why he was here now.

And what he had to do.

A sergeant, eh? Things must be pretty bad if he’s the highest-ranking Warden still alive.

It was a sobering thought, and a testament to just how badly things had deteriorated in the short time Barent was gone from the city. He triggered the snowcraft’s comm system and punched in his badge frequency. The light went green when it connected to the Collective platform.

“Sergeant Dura,” he began. “I am sorry for the losses you’ve suffered, and pledge to do everything in my power to see that those deaths were not in vain. I never doubted the Wardens in the past, and I’m honored to find them just as resolute as ever. We need to meet in person so we can discuss our future course of action.”

A couple of minutes ticked by before they received a response. When it finally came, the words were laced with static, but loud and intelligible.

“I’m glad to hear you’re still alive, Sergeant Barent. And the honor is ours, I assure you. I appreciate your words about our fallen comrades, I only wish they could have lived to see the day the Great Betrayer returned to Le’sant. Come to the breakdown facility the First Ones used to construct the city. I’m sure you remember it. You will find us there.”

“I’ll arrive tomorrow,” Barent promised. “Stay safe, Sergeant.”

“You as well.”

Tana leaned forward in her seat as the connection was broken. “So, I take it we’re leaving the attack force behind and speeding up ahead now?”

“Yes, but I’d planned on doing that anyway. With the snowcraft, we can get to the hideout well before them, and start charging up the power units for the plasma weapons we have cached there. That way when our army arrives, the guns will be ready and waiting for the attack on Le’sant.”

“But if that was your plan all along, then why didn’t we already leave? We could have been there hours ago.”

“Because I wanted to see how the Olin and Exiles fared together on the trip down. It was an excellent opportunity for either side to attack the other, but when things got hairy, they actually helped each other out.”